


you know me

by jillyfae



Series: Façades [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Epilogue, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Lovers to Friends, Prequel, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of short pieces regarding Luise Hawke and Isabela</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lies of omission

Isabela liked to be mysterious.

Mysterious past, mysterious name, mysteriously good at as many things as possible.

Especially things that kept her alive and other people dead.

Or things that involved everyone being naked.

She pretended to more of the latter than was strictly accurate, and rather less of the former, hiding muscles and scars beneath just enough leather to distract, just enough cloth to entice.

Just enough steel to keep herself always in control.

Everyone underestimated her, just as she preferred.

She didn't need pirates to know the tricks she hid up her ... well, she didn't have sleeves, that had always seemed a silly saying anyways; she had tricks up her gloves and down her boots and just about anywhere there was a breath of space between cloth and skin and leather.

Hawke hadn't fallen for a one of them.  

She had taken one look at Isabela's shoulders, at the balance of her hips, had let her eyes shift to almost every place Isabela hid a blade, and had nodded, just once, as if recognizing a fellow warrior.

Isabela had admired strong arms and stronger legs that night they met, after Hawke helped her, after they wandered back to the Hanged Man, _if you were a man I'd have to make a joke or two about the length of that sword, sweet thing_ , and stopped as Hawke's eyes grew suddenly dark, a hand hovering just past the hilt, a silence deep and sharp and sorrowful.

Her sister had turned away, a curve of shoulders and shake of thick black hair, and had excused herself, taking the dog with her as she stepped out into the night.

Isabela wanted to apologize for whatever memory was weighing them down.  Wanted to offer to help Hawke forget, just for a night.

Wanted so much she felt breathless with it, an ache in her palms she couldn't stretch free.  Her own hand fell to rest against the edge of a scabbard, a reminder of steel and strength and years of self-reliance, self-control.

She didn't feel remotely in control, a sharp twist of current under a cloudless sky, but she pretended, kept her voice light and sweet as she went back to flirting, ever so casually, but never, _quite_ , offering more.

Hawke almost smiled, and Isabela made herself smile back, swallowed a sigh of mingled relief and regret when she waved her new 'friend' away when she finished her drink.

That sigh never quite left her, those years Hawke rose up in Kirkwall, tight and sour in the back of her throat.  Even when they fell into bed together, hot dark skin and impossibly strong hands, the curve of Hawke's back and the taste of her sweat and the surprisingly light note of her laugh in the darkness, as if she'd finally broken free of every worry.

Sometimes Isabela managed to laugh as well, low and warm, a finger creeping up between Hawke's thighs or along the curve of breast or hip to distract her, just enough, from the shadow beneath the sound.

Because, of course, Isabela wasn't free at all, wasn't in control.  The weight of her past, the lies, that damn tome that she couldn't seem to find, the words she never said.

She'd been out of control ever since the first time she met Hawke, who recognized every silence of omission and somehow didn't care, who never did fall for a single one of Isabela's tricks.

Except, perhaps, the one where she pretended she wasn't falling in love.


	2. reputation (Isabela prequel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally prompted by [cheesiestart](http://cheesiestart.tumblr.com) for an au meme: Isabela, "secretly a virgin". I couldn't quite manage an AU, and instead wrote a prequel, from before she got married.

“But I didn’t do anything!” She was having trouble not crying, a sniffle in her nose and a burn in her throat and dampness in her eyes.

Her mother didn’t care, scowling and very pointedly  _not yelling._

“What you may or may not have done is irrelevant now. What matters is what people believe you may have done. And with the rumors? We’re lucky he didn’t pull back his offer.”

“But I don’t want to marry him!”

“Well no one else will have you, and I can’t afford to support you into useless spinsterhood.” Her mother sniffed. Just that. And then left.

Apparently she was more traditional than she thought. She’d be a virgin on her wedding night. Hopefully her fiance would improve on longer acquaintance.

_I’ll do this right. For once you’ll be proud of me. All of you._


	3. writer's block

Hawke had never understood why Isabela insisted on scribbling notes for her friend fiction with a soft stubby drawing pencil.  Varric always looked so  _classy_ , quill in hand, parchment or small notebook in front of him, the occasional squint narrowing his eyes as he thought.

Isabela, on the other hand, stole other people's desks or chairs or beds and somehow took up twice as much space as ought to have been possible, long legs and long arms and paper everywhere.

Usually paper someone else had been trying to use.  

Frequently extremely important paperwork that was supposed to be turned into the Seneschal's office  _yesterday_.

Hawke really was going to insist on a little decorum.  _Isabela, you can't keep drawing things like that on the banisters.  Isabela, I do actually have work to do in order to keep mother's house.  And you like the beds in mother's house, so I would think you'd cooperate?_

But the sight of those long sultry legs across Hawke's bed were a little distracting.  And then she rolled over with a sigh, and there were the ties to her bodice and the curve of her breasts.  And then there was that pencil, between her lips, a slight shift of her jaw as her teeth gently clenched around it, a sigh of apparent frustration making her chest  _lift_.

_Maker._

Hawke hummed, soft and low.  Not so low Isabela didn't hear it, however.  She raised her chin to look at the source of the sound, one lovely eyebrow lifting as she smiled.

The 'important' paperwork disappeared completely, swept off the bed, the charcoal pencil rolling all the way under the desk, (to be found a moon later by Sandal, who then proceeded to decorate the walls on the landing with scribbly stick figures, depicting him and Dog apparently single-handedly and pawed-edly clearing out the Deep Roads and receiving cookies from the Viscount as a reward).

Isabela had very nimble fingers. Hawke was quite determined.  It didn't take long to undo every single lace and tie, not long at all until fabric was tossed out of the way, (though one boot stayed on), and their wordless enjoyment of each other's company wasn't particularly quiet, but the rest of the household knew better than to walk into Hawke's bedroom uninvited.  Or any room, really, without knocking first.

And it was absolutely worth the rolled eyes from the clerk at the Keep the next day, handing over yet another copy of paperwork to be filled out.


	4. formality

Dressing for one of Hawke’s formal engagements was always an exercise in torturous self-restraint.  Isabela was not a fan of self-restraint.  And yet … for Hawke.

Hawke was usually hidden in armor, or lounging about in that dreadful excuse for a house robe, loose in all the wrong places.

But for parties,  _Andraste’s Tits_ , it was unfair the way the woman filled out a pair of trousers, the way the fabric clung to the curve of her ass.  And then she’d button up her shirt, and settle her vest across her shoulders, and swear softly as she adjusted her collar, stiff points almost hiding the smooth skin of her neck, just hinting at the curving lines of her body beneath all that cloth, and suddenly Isabela’s corset was always much too tight, and her fingers itched and she pretended she didn’t recognize the ache in her chest for what it was, focusing instead on the heat low in her belly.

The only saving grace of not putting her hands under all those buttons was seeing  Hawke’s eyes go dark as she watched the heavy sway of Isabela’s long skirts, as she traced the lines of embroidery as they wrapped around Isabela’s body.

Isabela wasn’t generally much for fripperies, but ridiculous Orlesian silk did feel so very nice against the skin, especially when the whisper as it shifted made Hawke’s breath catch, her cheeks warming as she imagined the moment, later in the night, when she took it all off Isabela’s exceedingly willing body.

Of course, sometimes they didn’t make it that long, and Hawke’s fingers would slide up under all Isabela’s skirts, even as Isabela’s hands grabbed that ass and slid her thigh between Hawke’s legs, and they kissed hard enough to swallow the sounds neither of them ever tried to hide as they made each other come behind a door, or in the shadows of the garden, before returning to the party and pretending to be respectable.

Not that they were fooling anyone, least of all themselves, but sometimes that was half the fun.


	5. Fun and Games

Hawke sighed softly at the feel of Isabela’s warmth behind her back. The sigh darkened and thickened as she felt breasts press against her, hands sliding around her hips and stomach to pull their bodies tightly together.

She gasped something that might have been Isabela’s name, but was mostly just a startled noise, as one hand slid beneath the ties of her trousers, long strong fingers slowly working their way down.

“Wha –“ Hawke’s almost question was muffled before she even figured out what she was going to ask, Isabela’s other hand clapped over her mouth, pushing tightly against her lips.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Isabela whispered in her ear. “Let me. Distract you from your worries.” Hawke shuddered at the warm caress of that voice against her skin, those fingers cupping her gently between her legs, a breathless moment of sharp-edged anticipation.

She shuddered again, eyes closing as she leaned back against Isabela’s body, a soft sigh muffled against Isabela’s skin, as those fingers began to move. Slow and soft at first, still on the wrong side of her smalls, light and teasing. And then not so teasing, as they pushed just a little harder, a little faster, and Hawke’s hips tilted as the sigh deepened to a full moan, vibrating through her chest and throat before it caught against Isabela’s hand.

The sharp edge of Isabela’s teeth against her neck made Hawke’s body jerk. Fingers finally pushed fabric out of the way, though it was wet enough it tried to cling to her body, and then there was the touch of skin on skin, slick sliding between fingers and folds, and Hawke jerked again, the muscles low in her stomach starting to tremble.

Isabela never rushed, never paused, strong fingers stroking just so, even as warm lips kissed her neck, her jaw, her shoulder.

Isabela’s arms held her tight, strong and ruthless and beautiful,  _my pirate queen_ , and the warm lush whisper of her voice was enough, just enough, to push her hard against those fingers, shuddering and blind and delighted, that sharp edge of pleasure a shock through muscles and skin.

Only then did Isabela finally move her hand off Hawke’s mouth to let her breathe, one ragged gasp after another until she felt her wits and legs firm up beneath her.

Only then did Isabela slide her other hand free, and step back with a soft laugh.

Hawke turned, eyebrows raised and smile wide, just in time to see Isabela wink, and stick her fingers in her mouth to suck them clean.

“Mmm?” Hawke managed, breath caught in her throat again as she watched Isabela’s throat shift as she swallowed.

“I have some errands to run, love,” Isabela grinned. “You can find me at the Hanged Man after dinner. If you’re not too busy Championing around Kirkwall, of course.” And with that she was gone, a sway of her hips and a kiss blown over her shoulder.


	6. Call Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble meme prompt by [janie](http://janiejanine.tumblr.com/)

“So.”  Hawke attempted to smile.  Well, she was sure she managed to smile, but she was afraid it looked too friendly, or too serious.  She wanted to be alluring.  Inviting.  Seductive.

She'd never really had to be the one seducing, before. She wasn't quite sure how to go about it.

Isabela tilted her head, her lips curving with amusement.

_Even all set to laugh at me she’s bloody perfect._

She’d also seemed  _interested_ , after dealing with Hayder, but Hawke was perfectly well aware that she was distressingly bad at flirting, and had somehow fumbled what had looked like a perfect invitation.

“What can I do for you Hawke?”

_Anything you want._

“Um, well, it’s more, I was wondering,”  _if you’d let me kiss you._

“Yes?”  Isabela leaned in, and Hawke’s gaze dropped to watch skin and cleavage almost brush against her arm, and she swallowed.

“Come visit sometime?” Hawke lifted her eyes, slow along the line of Isabela’s neck, and smiled as she finally met her eyes.  

Then she stood and walked away, confident that for once she’d finally gotten her point across.


	7. Fight Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble meme prompt from [twistedsinews](http://twistedsinews.tumblr.com)

She waited.

Waited for a sharp look, a shake of a head, a wave of a hand or the tilt of a wrist.

Waited for the anger, the regret, the disappointment.

She’d left, after all.  For all her talk of knowing herself, of standing on one’s own two feet, she’d run away rather than face the consequences of her choices.

It didn’t matter that she’d come back, not really.  She’d still walked away.

Twice, even.

But every time she tried to speak, tried to ask, tried to figure out what Hawke was thinking, Hawke only smiled, or trailed her fingers through Isabela’s hair, or tugged on the ties of her bodice, and then Isabela could never seem to remember what she’d been trying to say.

_Say something. Fight me.  Hate me.  I can’t stand waiting. I can’t stand the thought of losing you._

But Hawke just held her tighter, and kissed her lips, or cheeks, or jaw, and whispered softly against the skin of her neck,  _welcome back, lover._

Until, finally, even Isabela believed her.


	8. Kiss with a Fist (Isabela Prequel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by [clio](http://servantofclio.tumblr.com/)

_Andraste’s Panties_ , the man was an idiot.  Extra ‘specially stupid, if he thought that smirk was going to work on her.

"Don’t you know who I am, sweet thing?" She whispered as he leaned in close, as if she’d kiss someone who’d so clearly let half his brain wash away with his ale. _  
_

He leered, like he thought he was clever.  "Pretty?"

"Prettier than you’ve ever been, yes, but that’s not the point."

His friend had apparently finally noticed the  _daggers on her back_ , and put that together with the heavy gold around her neck, and his eyes widened and he nudged the first idiot …

But the first idiot continued to ignore all attempts at sense and swatted the hand at his back, and tried to kiss her instead.

She let him think he was going to make it.

At the very last moment she slammed her forehead into his nose, grinning at the audible  _crack_ , and when he staggered back, hands to his face, squealing like a dying pig, she punched his stomach hard enough to make him retch, and fall to his knees, and then all the way to his side, breath whining out of him just like one of those fancy whistles noble brats like to play with, sliding down in pitch as he tried to remember how to breathe back in again.

She tilted her head, looking at the friend, who nodded surprisingly smoothly for a drunken louse.  "Sorry Capt’n," he muttered, “I’ll clean him up, won’t be no bother."

"And pay my tab?"

He opened his mouth as if to argue that, but she raised a brow and shifted her weight, and he wasn’t nearly drunk enough not to recognize the glint of steel at her back and in her eyes.

"No prob’m."

"Good."  She grabbed the downed idiot’s mug, and drained it dry, and slammed it back down on the bar.  "Have a lovely night," she called over her shoulder as she swaggered out the door.


	9. philosophy

There was nothing like the sea.

Isabela liked to joke about freedom, and a half naked crew toiling under a hot sun, and barrels of rum and booty,  _both kinds_ , but for her the sea provided the very security she always claimed she never wanted.

You could trust the sea to be exactly what she seemed, wild and endless and merciless and beautiful.  You couldn’t disappoint her, and she would only disappoint you if you forgot what she was, if you started to take the current or the wind or the shift of the waves for granted.

Which really, usually ended up with you dead and drowned, rather than disappointed, so the sea was nothing if not extreme in her affections.

But she never lied, and that honesty was more than Isabela could ever have hoped for, when she was young and lost and forced to hide behind her husband’s name, forced to watch the smooth practiced lies and smiles of the people around her, desperate to find one slim truth that made it worth hoping for something better.

So it seemed impossible, that the sea could have washed Isabela back to Kirkwall’s docks again, despite her best intentions, despite every bit of common sense she’d managed to string together, every shiver down her spine that insisted she stay gone while the going was good.

Or something like that.

And yet here she was again.

There had been a light in Hawke’s eyes, when Isabela had returned to the Keep with the Tome, and then that very light had faded, dark and bloodstained by her fight with the Arishok.

Isabela wasn’t sure which had hurt more.

Isabela wasn’t sure why she wanted to know what Hawke’s eyes would do this time, now that she was coming home again.

Isabela hated that she thought of Kirkwall as home.

She couldn’t hate Hawke though.  Never.  And for some reason, she found herself hoping Hawke didn’t hate her, either.


	10. velvet

Isabela liked weather.

She liked the sun warming her skin, or the wind in her hair, or even the chill of a cold nose.

That last one was particularly good if you had someone to help warm you up again, once you got inside.

Hawke was very warm, all that muscle and dark skin and darker hair and calluses in just the right places.

And once they were both ever so thoroughly warmed up, they were usually both ever so exhausted, and they’d stay wrapped up in bed until they fell asleep.

It was a nice bed, after all, wide and just soft enough, with a ridiculous number of pillows.

Isabela liked that bed.

Isabela liked Hawke in that bed, quite more than she’d probably liked anyone else in any bed ever, which occasionally still surprised her, an ache between her lungs as she drew in her first breath of air in the morning.

As said breath usually smelled like Hawke herself, tangled up in the blankets she’d stolen while she slept,  _terrible at thievery when she’s awake, has to make up for it somewhere I suppose,_  said ache usually disappeared with her first slow stretch, warm muscles and pleasant memories and bare skin rubbing against the sheet beneath her.

Another slow breath, a slower blink, one last yawn, and she’d grab the blankets and roll out of bed, laughing even as Hawke shouted awake at the unexpected shock of cool air on over-heated skin.

But Hawke, for all her fondness for heavy weapons and heavy armor, could move quite fast when properly motivated.  So even as Isabela rolled away, laughing over her prize, Hawke would pounce, and they’d fight over the blankets, and tumble across the floor, and if Isabela had timed everything  _just right_ , they’d come to rest on the hearth-rug, the banked coals of the fire warm beside them, the dim red glow lining each shift of Hawke’s muscles, each curve of shoulder or breast or hip, and Isabela would forfeit the blanket, and take a kiss instead.

Softly, though, slow and sweet.  They were already warm, after all, no need to rush, no where else to be, the cold weather forgotten, safe beyond thick walls and velvet drapes.


	11. salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for twistedsinew and Femslash February

Salt was a terrible, magical thing.

Heavy in water.

Light in porridge.

The lift in the bread and the only reason the pork in the galley lasted.

Death, if the fresh water ran out.

Life, warm and exquisite, when licked off a lover’s skin.

Off Hawke’s skin.

Isabela had to admit a partiality.

Hawke tasted positively sublime.

Even after nine weeks at sea.


End file.
